


so are they all, all honorable men

by distira



Category: Football RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>raúl and guti and real madrid, from beginning to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so are they all, all honorable men

  
“Hey.”

The locker room is full of boys, gangly, awkward boys who have yet to grow into their shoulders; quick, talented boys who have been here, it seems, for years. Raúl keeps his head down and focuses on unlacing his boots. They’re new and stiff, just like this new club is, and he thinks he feels blisters forming on his heels. He wants his old boots back, even though there was a hole in the leather and his littlest toe poked through. He wants his old kit back, too, the red and white stripes, because he’s afraid to get the white of this one dirty.

But when nobody else answers, Raúl picks his head up and sees the blond boy from earlier, the one who had been dribbling circles around the rest of them, standing in front of him. He wears a towel and nothing else, and while he’s just as gawky as everyone else, while Raúl could probably count his ribs if he tried hard enough, the line of his shoulders is straight and proud and confident, like a man, not a boy.

“Hi,” Raúl mumbles.

“I’m Guti,” the boy offers. After a beat, he sticks out his hand, so Raúl reaches up and shakes it. Neither of their grips is firm. Guti grins. “You’re new?”

“Yeah.”

Guti lets go of his hand and steps to the side, pulling open his locker. “I’ve been here since I was eight,” he says, pulling a t-shirt over his head and shaking his hair out, sending sprays of water all over. Raúl nods. “I can show you around, or whatever.”

“Sure,” Raúl answers. He pulls his boots off and goes to work on his socks. “Thanks.”

Guti doesn’t answer, but Raúl figures he was mostly saying it for posterity, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

\---

"Come over after practice," Guti says a few weeks later. He's bordering on late, still wearing jeans and a t-shirt while the rest of them have changed into their practice kits. Raúl freezes in the process of picking up his water bottle.

"Okay."

The thing with Guti, Raúl is learning, is that he's flighty. Just as he moves fluidly from one passing sequence to another on the pitch, he slides from conversation to conversation, person to person, off of it, one day best friends with the dark-haired boy who wants to be a striker, and the next day ignoring him all together.

They go to Guti's house, where his mother yells at them to take off their shoes before they track mud all over the carpet, and they slip upstairs before she can come out to properly greet them.

There's a pile of untouched homework on Guti's desk. The bed is unmade and Guti sprawls comfortably, blinking at Raúl, who sits stiffly at the foot of the bed. Guti nudges the small of his back. "Lighten up," he says, Cheshire cat grin firmly in place, poking him until Raúl's shoulders slouch and then kicking him until he flops down, legs dangling off of the side of the bed, head propped uncomfortably against the wall.

"I'm gonna be in the first team one day," Guti says, after they've exhausted the how-did-you-get-into-football and how-many-siblings-do-you-have conversations.

"Says who?" Raúl asks absently, picking at a loose thread on Guti's comforter. Guti doesn't say anything for a long moment, so Raúl looks up, worried that he may have overstepped an unspoken boundary. Guti's jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck visible underneath his pale skin.

"Says me."

If it was anyone else, Raúl might have laughed it off or forgotten about it, but he sees the look in Guti's eyes, the blind faith and determination, and he doesn't doubt it.

\---

"What's your favorite thing about football?"

Raúl picks the ball up, balancing it on the top of his foot, and bites his lip in concentration. He lifts it, sending the ball into the air, and brings his foot around it, circling, racing time to get it back down to catch the ball again. He loses. "Fuck," he mumbles as the ball bounces once, twice. Guti coughs. Raúl kicks the ball at him and watches it bounce off of Guti's thigh, rolling away from both of them.

"I like scoring goals," he says simply.

\---

The first time Raúl gets drunk, really drunk, he's with Guti.

It's ironic, because Raúl has grown used to his role as the one who stops Guti from doing stupid things like going out for drinks the night before a match. Now, he finds himself clinging to Guti's arm, the music from the club speakers pounding through his body as Guti raises his free hand and passes Raúl a shot glass.

"Next year, man," Guti shouts over the speakers. "Next year, it'll be ours."

They throw back the shots, and Raúl's never had hard liquor before tonight. He's never been to a club before tonight. He's never found himself staring at another man (or boy, he can't tell what Guti is. He looks like a man, sometimes, but not tonight, tonight he just looks disappointed) before tonight, either, but Guti, after not quite one year, has uncovered all of his weaknesses and thrown them in his face.

"What'll be ours?" Raúl slurs. He leans over to put his glass down and gets stuck on top of Guti's outstretched arm. He stays there for a moment before Guti heaves him back.

"Madrid," Guti says. His eyes are clearer than Raúl's ever seen then before, bright bright blue.

The next morning, Raúl wakes up with a pounding headache and it takes more willpower than he knew he had to haul himself down to the stadium. He knows Guti's hung over, too, but Raúl gets subbed out in the sixtieth minute while Guti plays the whole game. Despite the grimace on his face, his passes are crisper and more fluid than ever before.

\---

Somehow, between practice and matches and frantically trying to finish both his and Guti's homework, the white shirt stops feeling stiff and uncomfortable and formal and starts feeling like home. Raúl's still afraid to get it dirty, but he's also proud to be wearing it. He washes the kit himself, careful not to shrink it, careful to always get the grass stains off of it, and when he's done, he folds it up neatly and puts it on the corner of his dresser.

And somehow, between staying at the training grounds long after everyone else has gone home and stealing alcohol from their parents and making endless prophesies about a future filled with grandeur, he and Guti have become friends.

\---

They tell him he's moving from the youth team to Real Madrid C after practice one day. They clap him on the back and tell him what an honor this is and send him to clean out his locker, because he'll be showing up at a different training ground the next day.

The only thing Raúl can think of is Guti.

He's exploding inside and all he wants to do is share this with his best friend because this is what he's been working for his entire life, to move out of a youth academy and to a real team. But when he gets to the locker room he keeps his head down and hits the showers with everyone else, because if Guti didn't get this too, Raúl doesn't know how he'll be able to cope with the guilt.

He needn’t have worried, though, because Guti comes bounding in and the smile that stretches across his face is more brilliant than anything else Raúl's ever seen.

\---

When Jorge Valdano hands him the first team shirt and tells him to come to Valdebebas for training from now on, Raúl doesn't know what to say.

The first thing he does when he gets home is try the shirt on. It's pristine, perfectly paper white. He runs his fingers over the crest and realizes that in two short years, he's come to love this club more than he ever thought he could.

Guti comes barreling into his bedroom and his mother shouts up too late, "Your friend is here, Raúl!"

Raúl turns to face Guti and the way Guti's face crumples makes Raúl wish he was wearing something else, anything other shirt, anywhere but here.

"Sixteen goals, huh," Guti says. "That's what it takes?"

Unable to reply, Raúl takes off the shirt and puts it on the dresser, crumpled and soft and white. Guti reaches for it and holds it out in front of him, staring at it, and his face twists into something like envy. He swipes his thumb over the crest and throws the shirt back onto the dresser.

"Were you gonna tell me?"

"Yeah, of course I was," Raúl says. "I just found out. I haven't told anyone yet."

"They give you a contract?"

Raúl nods and Guti kicks the dresser. "It was supposed to be me, you know," Guti tells him. "I've been here since I was eight fucking years old, what the fuck." Raúl doesn't say anything. Guti's voice rises. "You came here from fucking Atlético, what the fuck?"

"I'm sorry," Raúl says quietly, scuffing his toe back and forth over the floorboards. "I'm not- I know it was supposed to be you, Chema. Not me."

If he could, Raúl would give Guti the shirt that's lying crumpled on the dresser, and he wouldn't regret it. Knowing that scares him a little. He can't give it to Guti, because he's pretty sure Valdano knows which one of them is Raúl and which one of them is Guti, but he picks up the shirt and holds it out anyway, a white flag.

"Take it," he insists. "You deserve it. Not me."

Guti pushes his hand back towards his body. "Fuck you, Raúl," he says. "You could at least have the decency to be happy about this so that I can hate you for it." Raúl just stands there, clutching the shirt to his chest. Guti moves closer to him and tentatively puts his arms around Raúl's shoulders. "You deserve it. That's why they gave it to you."

Guti's arms are warm around him and they stand there like that for a long moment, the shirt trapped between their bodies, and one of Raúl's hands moves to clutch at Guti's side, fingers digging in to flesh that is softer than it looks.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Sorry."

"Shh," Guti tells him, and it's so strange, because Raúl is usually the one doing the holding, when Guti climbs in through his window, drunk and sleepy.

They pull back and Guti reaches out once again to touch the shirt, tugging gently on the hem. "It looks good on you," he says. Coming from him, Raúl knows it's an apology. Guti lets go of the shirt, even though he looks like he doesn't want to, never wants to.

"You'd better be dedicating your goals to me now, fucker," Guti tells him solemnly. "Oh, and you're paying for the booze tonight."

"What?"

Guti snorts. "You think we aren't gonna celebrate this? Get your wallet, let's go."

They end up back at Guti's house, with a bottle of vodka wrapped in a paper bag and nothing to mix it with, so they drink it straight and fall asleep curled around each other in Guti's bed.

\---

Raúl scores his first goal in his second game, and as much as he loves wearing the white shirt now, when he steps onto the pitch and sees red and white stripes lined up against him, it feels strange.

When the ball hits the crossbar and ricochets back into the net, Raúl doesn't know what to do. He runs like crazy for a minute, pulling at the shirt and smiling like an idiot, before his teammates jump on him. When they let him up for air, he looks into the stands, where he knows Guti's sitting because he made his parents buy an extra ticket for his friend, and he points up at the blond, still grinning. Guti beams down at him, and when the whistle blows for play to start again, Raúl can't stop smiling.

\---

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

They're in Guti's room. Raúl lounges on the bed while Guti picks up his dirty clothes and pretends to organize his desk, grumbling under his breath about his mother.

"Sure," Raúl says. "Why?"

Guti shrugs. "Dunno, you just never seem to be into it when we go out. You never bring anyone home."

"Neither do you," Raúl points out. Guti waves his hand dismissively.

"Ever wonder why I take so long in the bathroom, though?"

Raúl wrinkles his nose and throws a pillow at Guti.

"How about a guy?" Guti asks after a minute

"Huh?"

"A guy. You ever kissed a guy?"

Raúl shakes his head. "No," he says. "What, have you?"

"Yeah. My cousin's birthday party, once. It was her next door neighbor."

Raúl sits up on his elbows. "Yeah? Was it good?"

Because it's not like Raúl hasn't _thought_ about kissing a guy. It's not like he hasn't wondered what a bit of blond stubble would feel like against his jaw, or what big blue eyes would look like when they pulled back.

"Mmhmm. Yeah."

Guti keeps cleaning and Raúl picks at the comforter threads and it's quiet for a while. The door to the room is open and Raúl can hear Guti's mom cooking dinner; he knows that in about fifteen minutes she'll come up and poke her head in and ask if he wants to stay. His own mother, he knows, is trying to get his father to cook dinner tonight, and it'll probably end up burnt and inedible, so he's going to say yes.

"D'you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"Kiss a guy."

"Oh," Raúl says. He presses his lips together. "I guess? I don't know."

Guti throws a sock at him. "For real man, just say it. I won't tell anyone."

Raúl moves to sit on the end of the bed. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I do. I mean. Yeah." He throws the sock back onto the floor and doesn't look back at Guti.

"Hey, man, it's okay," Guti tells him, and when Raúl looks up, he's awfully close. His breath washes over Raúl's face and Raúl doesn't know if he should pull back or push Guti away or pull him closer.

It doesn't matter, though, because Guti makes the decision for him when he leans down just a tiny bit further and their lips brush together. Guti's mouth is soft and supple and he's shaved recently, so his cheeks are smooth but it's not like kissing a girl. Raúl can feel Guti's nose bumping against his and when he tilts his head, Guti's jawbone is there, solid and warm, more square than any girl he's ever kissed.

Their lips move together lightly for a minute. Guti stands over him, hands braced on Raúl's shoulders to keep from falling over, and Raúl fists the comforter because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. It's nice anyway.

Guti pulls back when he hears his mom coming up the stairs. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins at Raúl, who turns bright red and presses his own lips together and licks at them.

"Raúl, honey, are you staying for dinner?" Guti's mom pokes her head into the room and smiles.

Raúl kicks the sock towards Guti, who nods and laughs.

"If it's not too much trouble…"

"Of course it's not, don't be silly. I'll call your mother."

\---

When Guti gets called up to the senior team, he barges into Raúl's house and runs up the stairs swinging the shirt around his head.

"We're gonna be unstoppable, fucker!" He yells when he throws open the door to Raúl's room.

Raúl laughs and gets up and hugs Guti, who pulls away and starts doing a matador dance right there in the middle of Raúl's bedroom, using the shirt as a cape.

\---

A few months later, the glory of the first team is starting to wear off and Guti spends most of his time stomping around and complaining.

"I hate the bench," he tells Raúl one day on their way home from practice. "It's cold and uncomfortable and I hate it."

Raúl hip checks him and then dances out of the way of any retaliation. "So get your ass in shape and get off the damn bench, then."

"Yeah? That how you did it?"

"Did what?"

"Got off the bench, fucker."

"Oh." Raúl doesn't actually know why he keeps getting thrown into matches. Maybe it has something to do with the way that once the ball's at his feet, he can do anything with it, bend it around defenders or curl it into the goal or thread passes through to his teammates. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he wears the white shirt like a shield, using it to protect himself from the crowd and the other team and everything except the goal. "I guess."

"I'll try it," Guti says, smirking. "Besides, national youth call-ups should be coming soon. World Cup year, man, can't miss that!"

It takes Valdano a few months to see what Raúl already knows- that Guti's passes are more beautiful than anybody else's. That he can control the game with a backheel flick or a chip into the box. That when he gets the ball, it's like magic.

Guti plays two full matches before the World Youth Championship squad list comes out. His name isn't on it. Raúl's is.

\---

Raúl doesn't wait for Guti to come to him, because that might never happen. Instead, he steals a bottle of vodka from his parents and climbs out his own window and gets lost on his way to Guti's house because it's dark and he's taken three wrong turns. When he finally makes it, it's almost one in the morning, so Raúl doesn't bother with the front door. He climbs up the tree that's next to Guti's house and kicks the window until Guti opens it, blinking like an owl.

"Catch," Raúl hisses, tossing the bottle at him. Guti puts it on the desk. Raúl swings his body forward until his feet land on the windowsill. Guti grips his calves and Raúl lets go of the tree, launching himself at the window and grabbing at Guti's neck to keep from falling. Guti pulls him into the room and shuts the window.

"The fuck are you doing, man?" Guti asks. Raúl shrugs.

"Figured you might want company."

Guti stares at him until Raúl looks down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."

"It's not- Fuck, Raúl, man, it's not your fault," Guti says. He sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Then why are you mad at me?"

Guti doesn't look up for a minute. "'Cause I'm sick of following you everywhere," he says. "I was here first. I wanted this first. And you just come in and get everything I want right away. It sucks, you know?" He looks up, finally, and Raúl's heart clenches for the wry, lopsided grin he's wearing. Guti blinks rapidly and Raúl thinks he might be holding back tears. "And I can't hate you for it because you're my friend and man, you're awesome and you deserve it and shit but I'm just so _sick_ of doing everything after you do."

Raúl doesn't say anything. Guti taps his feet against the floor.

"I just want something to be mine, you know?"

Raúl lets Guti fuck him that night. They're both drunk and it doesn't feel good, exactly; Guti's bed is too small and he doesn't stretch Raúl enough, but Raúl doesn't complain because this is his offering to Guti, this is his apology and his discomfort doesn't matter because he knows how much Guti needs to have this. Him.

He blinks back tears when Guti slides in, because it does hurt, but Guti stills for a minute, until Raúl opens his eyes, and then he starts to move, sweating above Raúl, his blond hair falling into his eyes and Raúl reaches up to brush it back because he's been thinking about this since the afternoon they kissed and he wants to see Guti's face.

Guti comes inside of him and then slides out, lying still for long moments before he reaches over and palms Raúl's cock back to full hardness and brings him off, flicking his wrist just right. Raúl bites down on Guti's bicep to keep from crying out as he comes and when they wake up the next morning, curled around each other but not touching, Raúl can see the outline of his teeth in Guti's skin.

\---

Raúl meets Mamen in his third season with the senior team. She's beautiful, of course, and he likes spending time with her. She's smart, enough that sometimes Raúl feels out of his league and wants to just go to Guti's house and watch things get blown up on the TV.

The first time Raúl kisses her, he buries his hands in her hair and pulls her close and the only thing he can think of is how different she is from Guti, how they are soft in different places, and how while Guti demands that Raúl make space for him, Mamen opens up her lips and invites him in, soft and reassuring.

\---

Guti's still struggling for a place in the starting eleven when Raúl gets his first call-up for the senior national team.

"You need to get called up soon, I'm getting sick of not knowing anyone," Raúl tells him over the phone. He's in the Czech Republic and Guti's in Madrid and Raúl misses him.

"You say it like I'm not even trying," Guti says.

"Oh, shut up, Chema, I know you are."

"Next year, then. You and me, man. First Madrid, then Spain."

"Deal."

\---

The thing with Guti, Raúl is realizing, year by year, is that Guti doesn't care about today, he cares about tomorrow and next year and what he _will_ do, not what he does. It gives him an enviable air of ease, at practice, in matches, buying his own apartment, going out and getting drunk the night before a match, because he doesn't care about _now_ , just _next month, next year, sometime._

\---

Morientes comes to Madrid in Raúl's fourth year with the senior team.

After training, Raúl stands by Morientes's locker and waits for him to finish showering. "Hey," he says.

"Hi," Morientes replies. He's nothing at all like the shy, quiet boy Raúl had been when he first came here, six years ago. He's got a broad smile and a warm handshake and friendly eyes.

"I'm Raúl," Raúl says. Morientes laughs.

"Mori," he replies.

"Come out with us," Raúl invites, gesturing over to Guti, who's fixing his hair in the mirror.

"Sure," Mori says, and that is that.

Being friends with Mori is easy. Raúl doesn't feel like he's walking on eggshells they way he sometimes feels around Guti. They have an easy partnership, on and off the pitch, and Raúl finds himself going to Mori's place when Guti's in a bad mood.

\---

"Hey, wanna hang out?"

He feels stupid, calling Guti to ask if he wants to hang out as if they're both still fifteen, but he doesn't know what else to do, so he sucks up his pride.

"Can't," Guti replies shortly. "Going out with Arancha tonight."

"Who?"

"Arancha." Guti pronounces her name as if Raúl is slow. "My girlfriend."

"Wait, what?"

"My girlfriend, fucker, you'd know that if you still spent time with me," Guti says, and hangs up.

Raúl doesn't know why it feels like he's been punched in the stomach. It's not like Guti is his. He's only had Guti the one time, even though it's what he thinks about sometimes, when he fucks Mamen. Guti's just his best friend. He shouldn't feel like this.

Except that Guti's right, Raúl hasn't been spending time with him, and Raúl feels like shit, because he's been ignoring his best friend for a guy with an easy laugh and friendly eyes. He feels like shit because he should've known Guti well enough to figure out how he would react to Mori, and he should've been able to prevent it, but he didn't.

Raúl doesn't know what to do, so he calls Mamen. She doesn't answer.

He calls Mori next, and he does answer, so Raúl puts on a jacket and goes over to his place and ignores the guilt sinking into his stomach, because Mori is the whole reason he and Guti are fighting, if it is a fight. He thinks it is.

Mori doesn't ask questions, just offers him a beer and they settle onto the couch and halfway through the shitty, made-for-TV movie that's playing, Raúl pushes Mori back into the cushions and kisses him, all tongue and teeth and Mori doesn't push him away, but instead fists the back of Raúl's shirt and hauls him closer, cradling him between his legs.

When Raúl fucks him, it feels like Mori's taking care of him, not the other way around. Even so, Raúl makes sure to stretch Mori properly, fascinated by the slide of his fingers, in and out, and the way Mori's body accepts his girth. Mori's heels hook around his back and pull him closer, inch by inch, and he smiles when it's over, reaching for a box of tissues.

Raúl doesn't stay the night, but he invites Mori over after their next match and they do it again, until it becomes a routine, and Raúl learns to ignore the looks Guti sends him when he and Mori leave together, because he doesn't even know if Guti wants him to figure out what they mean.

\---

What confuses Raúl is that he feels guilty about sleeping with Mori on Guti's behalf, but not on Mamen's.

Being with Mamen is simple. They go to the beach and to cafés and they kiss and Raúl likes to play with her hair after sex. He likes the way she curls into him, and he likes the way her body is so much smaller than his. He likes waking up next to her in the mornings and smelling her on the sheets after she's left.

He asks her to marry him because he loves her. He doesn't expect her to say yes because he knows that he's being awful.

She says yes, anyway, and when he tells Mori, the news is welcomed with a smile and a hug and a kiss to the corner of his lips.

\---

Guti asks Raúl to be the best man at his and Arancha's wedding, and Raúl says yes.

"Why'd you ask me?" Raúl questions after the bachelor party, when they stumble into Guti's apartment, trying to be quiet even though they don't have to. It reminds Raúl of sneaking into Guti's parents' house when they were younger, and he misses those days.

They make it into Guti's bedroom and unbutton their dress shirts and take off their nice shoes and Raúl borrows a pair of sweatpants to sleep in.

"'Cause you're my- man, you're Raúl," Guti says. They flop down on the double bed together and Raúl tucks himself against Guti's side. He can smell the alcohol on Guti's breath. His probably smells the same. "We're fighting, whatever. My fault." Guti waves his hand at the ceiling. "But you're Raúl," he keeps saying, and Raúl wonders why he says it like it should mean something.

\---

They get married within weeks of each other, and go on their honeymoons and sit through the transfer season and when they get back to Madrid, married now, the both of them, things to back to normal, except that Raúl still goes to Mori's after matches. They don't fuck anymore, but Raúl likes spending time with him. It's still easy, simple, just like how they are on the pitch.

Then Mori gets hurt.

He's graceful about it, all things considered. He does his exercises in the pool and comes to all the matches and for a while, nothing changes. But after the first month, when it still feels strange for him not to be at practice, Raúl stops going to Mori's apartment after matches. After the second month, when Guti gets moved up and starts playing as his strike partner, Raúl starts going to Guti's.

Guti and Mori are not interchangeable in his life, he knows. That's not how this is. What he's learning is that he can only have one of them at a time.

Guti is happier than he has been in years, Raúl thinks, scoring goal after goal, feeding pass after beautiful pass. Surely, he thinks, the national team will see what he has always known, that Guti has matured and figured out how to play with a team and can score beautiful goals with his eyes closed.

He's right, of course, so Guti and Raúl go to Croatia while Mori stays on his couch.

Guti doesn't play. Raúl does.

Raúl lets Guti fuck him that night in the hotel. His palms slide up and down Guti's back as Guti moves over him. It's the same as before, but also different; Guti stretches him out more, takes his time. He waits until Raúl is pushing his hips back desperately, fucking himself on Guti's fingers and chanting his name, _"ChemaChemaChema"_ until Guti finally slides in, gripping his hips and breathing out in harsh puffs against Raúl's neck.

It feels more like cheating than sleeping with Mori ever did, because Guti's meant something to him since Raúl was fifteen and shy and uncomfortable in a white shirt.

\---

Raúl is made captain of La Selección two and a half years later. He has played in the Eurocopa and the World Cup and he has grown to love the red jersey just as he loves the white jersey. He accepts the armband from Hierro and feels the weight of all of Spain come crashing down in his shoulders.

Mamen soothes him and strokes his hair and tells him how proud she is, but she's busy with the new baby and all she really wants to do is sleep. Raúl doesn't blame her for it, instead he lets her curl up against him and he puts the baby monitor by his side of the bed so she doesn't wake up in the night and he speaks softly to his son while he warms up baby formula, because he knows the boy doesn't understand and can't hate him for anything he says.

He goes to Guti and lets the midfielder open him up with his tongue and fingers and cock and it feels so good, to let Guti take control, because it's what Guti has always wanted, to have control, to own something. Raúl is more than happy to let Guti take him because he never wanted this, all he ever wanted to do was score goals.

\---

When Hierro leaves Real Madrid the next year, Raúl is shocked. Guti is shocked. Everyone is shocked.

The only thing that doesn't surprise any of them is Raúl getting the armband.

It fits over his sleeve perfectly, the stain he's always been afraid to get on the white of his jersey. He loves the club and he loves the shirt and over the years, he has gone from feeling uncomfortable to feeling like he would do anything for El Madrid, but his favorite thing about having the armband is when he gets to take it off and put it on Guti's arm, in the middle of the Bernabéu for the whole world to see.

\---

"Fifty."

Guti lets out a low whistle.

"Fifty goals in the Champions League, fucker," he says. "Remember when sixteen was the magic number?"

Raúl remembers.

\---

Raúl's most of the way to asleep when he hears someone banging on the door. He gets out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Mamen, and he pulls on a t-shirt before padding down the stairs.

Guti's standing outside his front door. His hair's a mess and his eyes are bloodshot and he looks like hell.

"God, Chema," Raúl says, pulling him into the house. "What did you do?"

They go to the kitchen and Raúl makes Guti drink a glass of water. "Why do you do this to yourself, Chema?"

Guti reaches out and presses his face into Raúl's shoulder. "'M not like you," he says. "Not like you. Can't be like you."

Raúl puts his arms around Guti and holds him close, breathing slowly until their heartbeats fall into line. "You don't want to be like me," he says, thinking of Mamen upstairs and the kids in their rooms and Mori, who's gone to Liverpool and then Valencia and who sends him Christmas cards.

"'Course I do," Guti mumbles. "You're Raúl, man. Raúl. You're Raúl."

Raúl knows who he is. The problem, he thinks, is that nobody else does.

\---

Raúl is not terribly sad to relinquish the armband to Iker for the matches he doesn't start. Iker wears it well, bears up to the pressure well. It gives him direction when he yells at his back line, and Raúl laughs to watch it. He knows he has been canonized by the Bernabéu faithful. He knows Iker has been, too. He knows Guti has not been.

When he watches Guti, during practice or in matches, he still sees the lanky blond kid from the youth academy who played with more instinct and talent than anyone Raúl had ever met. The only difference is that back then, Guti's shoulders were straight and proud and all he thought of was _tomorrow, next month, next year, senior team, Madrid, Spain_ , and now his shoulders slump a little and there are lines in his face and weight in his bright blue eyes and mostly he thinks _what if._

\---

When Mourinho tells them they don't need to show up to preseason training, Raúl knows it's only a matter of time before Guti calls him.

"That fucker," Guti spits into the phone. Raúl doesn't even know where he is, or who he's with. He's been completely off the wall since his divorce, and the only times Raúl gets to see flashes of the boy he became friends with more than sixteen years ago is when he invites Guti into his bed. He tells himself that's why he's been letting it happen more and more lately. "This isn't his team. He thinks he can just go all over motherfucking Europe and do whatever the fuck he wants to any team because he's "special". The fuck, man! It's not his fucking club! It's my fucking club! I've been here since I was eight fucking years old and he thinks he can throw me the fuck out now?"

Raúl lets him yell. What he doesn't say is how tired he is, how his body is telling him that it's time to slow down, or stop altogether. What he doesn't say is that if Guti leaves the club, he'll leave too, because he loves Madrid with all his heart, he loves the Bernabéu and Cibeles and the crest and the club, but he doesn't want to be the last emblem of a dying generation.

"I know," he says instead. "Where are you gonna go?"

"Fuck if I know!" Guti yells. "I've spent my whole life here! You think I actually think about going anywhere else?"

"You do spend a lot of time talking about going somewhere else," Raúl points out. Guti snorts.

"Talk is talk," he says. "I was never actually gonna do it."

 _Then you shouldn't have talked about it_ , Raúl doesn't say.

"Maybe Turkey," Guti says. "They want me."

"I might go to Germany," Raúl tells him. _Come with me_ , he doesn't say.

When Guti gets back to Madrid, Raúl goes to his house with a bottle of vodka and knocks on the Guti's bedroom window. It's on the first floor in this house, so Raúl doesn't have to climb up a tree to reach it. He's glad, because his body is tired and his bones ache and he'd probably fall.

They sit on Guti's bed and drink and watch the home shopping channel. Guti looks just as tired as Raúl does. His shoulders slope down and he slouches forward a little bit. His hair has gotten too long and he's dyed it too much and when Raúl runs his fingers through it, it's only soft at the roots. He doesn't mind, not really. What he does mind is the way the lines that used to frame Guti's smile now frame a mouth set in resignation. He minds how Guti's eyes don't laugh with him anymore.

"I don't want to leave," he says. He's not sure what he's talking about.

"Me neither," Guti replies. "But I guess it doesn't matter, yeah?"

Raúl lies back against the pillows and Guti slings a leg over his hips. "Expendable," Raúl says, running his fingers through Guti's hair over and over again. "We're expendable."

Guti sucks Raúl's bottom lip into his mouth and looks at Raúl with big blue eyes that will always be startling, Raúl thinks, no matter how sad they are. "Not you," Guti tells him. "Expendable. Not you. You're Raúl."

All these years later, Raúl still doesn't know what that means.

\---

They are presented at the Bernabéu, in front of tens of thousands of fans, as if they are new signings and fresh faces.

They aren't.

They are old bodies and forgotten legends. Raúl knows that this is as good of a goodbye as he could have hoped for, but he wants more. He wants to thank everyone here for chanting his name, for lifting him up when he didn't -and still doesn't, not really- know why. He wants to thank them for bathing him in white, for giving him their trust, for giving him the Bernabéu and Cibeles and Madrid and Spain.

Instead, he takes the flag that is emblazoned with the crest he has grown to love more than anything and performs the matador dance, as he did years ago, wearing a medal around his neck and the captain's armband around his arm, bathed in the adoration of Madrid. He looks up at Guti when he finishes, because he remembers Guti performing like this, when they were young, at Raúl's house in Madrid, using a shirt as the cape.

He kisses his wedding ring, like he always does, because Mamen is his constant and he loves her despite it all, and he salutes the crowd and he doesn't remember much else, because it's a blur of _Raúl_ and _Guti_ and white and he wants to hold every moment in his memory forever but he can't.

Later, in the locker room for the last time, he collapses against Guti. "Chema," he whispers, and his voice sounds broken to his own ears. "Chema."

For the first time in a long time, Guti gathers Raúl to his chest and holds him and Raúl feels young.

"I guess this is goodbye," Guti says after a while, Raúl doesn't know how long. Minutes. Hours.

"I don't want it to be," Raúl replies. "I don't want to leave."

He's tired and old but he wants to stay here, in this place, this sanctuary that has made him more than human, with this man who has made him nothing but.

"You never will," Guti tells him. "Not really. They'll never forget you here."

"Not you, either," Raúl says.

"Shh." Guti's hands smooth the back of Raúl's shirt and then Guti pulls away, the lines in his face showing each of his thirty three years. "They'll never forget you because you're Raúl."

It's the first time Guti's said it to him sober, and it's the first time Raúl thinks he might know what it means, the sound of the Bernabéu chanting for him ringing in his ears.

And because he is Raúl, he goes to Germany and puts on a new shirt and it doesn't feel right. It's like all those years ago, when he felt stiff and scared in the white shirt for the first time, except that now it just feels wrong, like he isn't supposed to be here. But he goes onto the pitch every Saturday and scores goals anyway, because that's all he's ever wanted to do. Somehow, it isn't enough, not here. He goes home to Mamen and the kids and plays football with them in the yard and thinks about how he wants his sons to go through the Madrid youth academy, how as soon as he retires (and it will be soon, he knows, because he hasn't dreamed of playing for any club except El Madrid since he was fifteen and now that he is, it feels as wrong as he had always assumed it would) they will move back to Spain and Madrid and their life.

Guti goes to Turkey and calls Raúl when he gets drunk and Raúl wants nothing but to be able to climb out of bed and go to him and calm him down and open up for him and let him in because it's all either of them has ever really needed.

But that, too, is a thing of the past, inextricably entwined with Madrid and white and the roar of the Bernabéu. When Raúl stops to think about it, he wouldn't have it any other way, because they all say that he is Madrid, he is Raúl, their captain forever, but he knows it's Guti who's always loved more fiercely than he ever has.  


**Author's Note:**

> it starts in 1992 when raúl first joined real madrid's youth academy (he came to real from atleti, if you didn't know). it ends sometime in fall/winter 2010, with my heart broken into pieces and trampled all over.
> 
> [here is the matador celebration](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-TwsZEOIOk&feature=related), in case any of you don't know what i'm talking about (it's referenced a few times). [and again the next year](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VT20DbWPv1A&feature=related) because i can't get enough of watching him do that.
> 
> just for a frame of reference, raúl is spain's record goal scorer and was the captain of la seleccion, while guti has only earned himself 15 call-ups and has never featured as a prominent member of the squad. i have my opinions on that but i'll keep them to myself.
> 
> a million thanks to [](http://vlieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**vlieger**](http://vlieger.livejournal.com/) for the beta job! undying love forever. you know.
> 
> also (again just in case you didn't know but you all probably do) chema is a common nickname for jose maria which is, in fact, guti's name.


End file.
